Arturo Obegero’s world is steeped in poetry—both the kind you read and the kind you wear. Raised in Tapia de Casariego, a windswept fishing village in northern Spain, he grew up surrounded by the rhythm of the ocean and the quiet melancholy of a place that seems to exist between past and present. His upbringing was bohemian, shaped by a family of surfers and a mother who encouraged his early love for the performing arts. Escapism wasn’t just a dream—it was a calling.
Before enrolling in Central Saint Martins’ prestigious MA program, Arturo honed his craft with the discipline of a couturier, mastering pattern-cutting while weaving his own creative narrative. Drawing from surrealism, neo-noir, and the theatricality of Spanish culture, he designs with a sense of drama—romantic, seductive, and unapologetically sophisticated. In March 2020, in the midst of a global standstill, he launched AO. By January 2021, his vision had arrived—debuting on the official Paris Fashion Week calendar.
There’s a park near my house, just outside Paris, and honestly, I need it to stay sane. If I don’t run, I go crazy. There’s something about blasting music and moving through nature that resets me—it’s the only way to properly decompress.
Then there’s my atelier in Paris where my production happens. At this point, it’s basically my second home. I spend so much time there, watching ideas take shape, obsessing over details, and making sure everything comes together the way it should. It’s work, but it’s also where I feel most in sync with what I do.
And then there’s Andrea’s place. She’s my stylist and my best friend in Paris, so if the atelier is my second home, her apartment is my third. We do fittings, hair and makeup tests, talk politics, talk shit, dance—it’s one of those spaces where creativity and life just blur into each other.
Anywhere in my hometown, Tapia de Casariego (Asturias, Spain). The food is ridiculously good, the drinks are cheap, and the people are warm. You sit there, practically on top of the ocean, eating something simple but perfect, and you wonder why you ever left.
Then there’s Andrea’s place—again. She lives in this little Narnia-esque patio in Pigalle, tucked away like a fairy tale oasis in the middle of Paris. We do dinners, we play cards, we act like kids. It’s feels like our secret, like time moves differently there.
And for my third—hmmm. I don’t go anymore, but I have to say the SU Bar at CSM. It wasn’t fancy, but it didn’t need to be. It was cheap, it was chaotic, and it held some of the best nights with my classmates. The kind of memories that stick with you, long after the place itself fades.
Elevastor in Paris is special. It’s this small boutique in the middle of Le Marais, showcasing young designers, and the team is just brilliant—fun, supportive, and always rooting for creatives from the start. Walking in feels like stepping into a space where people genuinely love what they do.
Then there’s Come on Eileen (yes, like the song), tucked near Hôtel de Ville. If you’re after vintage pieces from big brands, this place is gold. Racks and racks of history—you never know what you’ll find, but that’s half the fun.
And then there’s Guerrisol, the Parisian charity shop legend. The one in Barbès. Pure chaos. You have to dive—Tom Daley-style—straight into the piles of clothes. Most of it? Absolute rubbish. But then, out of nowhere, you pull out a treasure. It’s a mess, but that’s what makes it great, especially for research. You never leave empty-handed.
The park. I run for my life—literally. It’s less about fitness, more about survival. If I don’t run, my head gets too loud. So I go, music blasting, feet pounding the path, letting the world blur for a while.
My hometown, Tapia. Every time I’m back, it’s all drinking, celebrating, late nights with familiar faces. But somehow, it’s also where I reset. There’s something in the air, in the ocean, in the way time slows down. I always leave feeling lighter, like I’ve absorbed something I didn’t even know I needed.
And then Bois de Vincennes, just outside Paris. It’s like Hampstead Heath’s French cousin—vast, green, endless. When the sun’s out, it’s the perfect escape. The city disappears, and for a little while, it’s just trees, open space, and the quiet hum of people doing nothing in particular. Sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.
Moulin Rouge. Best movie ever. No notes. The drama, the excess, the tragic beauty of it all—I eat it up every time. Maybe it’s the theatricality, the way it makes everything feel bigger than life, but something about it just clicks with me. Also… I’m so gay.
The Skin I Live In by Pedro Almodóvar. Dark, twisted, hypnotic. Almodóvar is a master at making discomfort look beautiful, and this film—unsettling and meticulously composed—stayed with me long after I first watched it. It’s the kind of storytelling that lingers under your skin.
And then there’s my mother, Covadonga. She couldn’t care less about fashion, which, honestly, I love. It keeps me grounded. She’s never been impressed by aesthetics or trends, and yet, without her, I’d be nothing. She’s my foundation, the reason I push forward, the voice in my head reminding me that all of this—the work, the world—only matters if you stay true to yourself.
Palais de Tokyo, Paris. A space that feels alive—constantly shifting, challenging, provoking. It’s raw, unpolished, almost chaotic at times, but that’s what makes it brilliant. You walk in, and you never quite know what you’ll get, only that it’ll leave you thinking differently.
El Prado, Madrid. A temple of art. It holds history in a way that feels quite sacred. The masters—Velázquez, Goya, Bosch—all in one place, staring back at you across centuries. No matter how many times I visit, I always find something I hadn’t seen before.
Asociación de Antonio Gades, Madrid. Antonio Gades was everything—my favourite flamenco dancer, an artist who understood movement like no one else. This space keeps his legacy alive, a place where his passion, discipline, and defiance still pulse through the walls. It’s flamenco in its purest form—not just dance, but storytelling, history, and soul.
Volker Hermes. An illustrator who plays with history in the most subversive way. His work takes classical portraiture and warps it—hiding faces, distorting elegance, making the past feel eerily present. It’s imagery that lingers in your mind.
Zola Jesus. A musician, a witch, a force of nature. Her music is raw, haunting, cinematic—like something conjured rather than composed. There’s an intensity to her sound that feels both ancient and futuristic, a mix of ritual and rebellion.
And then—The Creepy Thin Man from Charlie’s Angels. Yes, Crispin Glover. A whole mood. There was something about his eerie silence, the way he moved, the unsettling elegance of it all. He became a reference for my AW23 collection—a reminder that menace can be graceful, that strangeness can be magnetic. Sometimes, inspiration comes from the most unexpected places.
"Song to the Siren" – This Mortal Coil. A huge influence on my SS23 Collection—haunting, romantic, melancholic. It perfectly captures my mood.
"Smack My Bitch Up" – The Prodigy. Pure energy and chaos. The driving force behind my AW23 collection.
For the third, I’m torn—I make playlists for every collection. But Washed Away by Kelela feels right. Fluid, cinematic, and emotional. Though honestly, anything by Rosalía, Tamino, or Oliver Sim’s Hideous Bastard could fit.
Impossible question—there are too many. But if I have to choose, I’ll give you one dead, one alive. Dead? Cristóbal Balenciaga. I’d want to know the man beyond the legend. To sit with him, watch how his mind worked, understand how he saw form, fabric, movement. He was a master, and I’d just listen, absorbing everything. Alive? Maybe Rosalía or Tamino. They both have this raw sensitivity, this way of translating emotion into music that feels almost tangible. Their artistry is fearless, yet so deeply considered. I’d love to hear about their process—what moves them, what scares them, how they push their work forward without losing themselves in the noise. Two very different worlds, but both rooted in instinct and precision. I imagine both conversations would be filled with long silences—not awkward, just thoughtful. The kind where you leave changed, even if only slightly.
People often assume I’m serious—maybe even a little sad. I get it. My work leans melancholic, sometimes intense, sometimes exacting. But I don’t think that’s me. Or at least, I hope it’s not. That I work hard. Relentlessly. I pour everything I have into what I create—my soul, my love, my obsession. Every detail matters, every decision is intentional. I don’t know how to do things any other way. And beyond the work? I’d like to think I’m a good person. A good friend. Someone who listens, who shows up, who cares. At the end of the day, that matters just as much—maybe more—than any piece I design or any project I finish. Because work is work, but the people you move through life with, the ones who see you beyond the surface—that’s what really lasts.